


Quite the Pair

by Loki_Laufeyson



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: A study in how Thomas and Mary are super alike, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loki_Laufeyson/pseuds/Loki_Laufeyson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thomas catches Mary and Anna on the night of Kemal Pamuk's death, he helps them carry the body back instead of Cora. </p><p>The secret brings Thomas and Mary closer than expected. </p><p>(And they learn they are more similar than either anticipated.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I owe the idea for this story to silentgirlspeaksout on Tumblr who, when I begged for a plot for a Thomas-Mary-Partners-in-Crime fic, came up with this beauty. http://silentgirlspeaksout.tumblr.com/post/125126260512/benedictable-will-someone-please-just-write-a#notes
> 
> I am hoping to write a season a chapter which may take a while so I've written the catalyst to the story as a prologue to see if anyone is actually interested in me continuing! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

The old house creeks beneath his feet and he curses it bitterly under his breath.

He’s a bit squiffy, he’ll admit, from the bottle of wine he’s been into (one of many stolen bottles) and still smarting from Pamuk’s earlier trickery. He blames both on why he's sneaking about upstairs, hoping to rummage in Pamuk’s empty room whilst he’s… visiting Lady Mary.

What he wasn’t expecting, as he crept down the hall, was to meet a Lady and her maid  in their nightgowns creeping in the opposite direction. 

“Thomas!” Anna exclaims, glancing quickly to Lady Mary who only trembles slightly, looking sickly and startled in the dim light. 

“My Lady,” Thomas says carefully, ignoring Anna, “Is everything alright here?”

Lady Mary lets out a pitiful sound, a hiccup or sob nothing like her bold character, and covers her mouth. For a moment, knowing what he does about the Turkish diplomat's call, Thomas worries that he has done something utterly dreadful (even for him). He makes a quick decision. 

“This wouldn’t happen to involve Kemal Pamuk?”

Mary’s eyes widen a fraction, “How did you…”

“I… caught wind of what his intentions might be when I was dressing him earlier.” It's not quite a lie. Thomas hesitates, this could get him sacked but he has to know. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn but I hope he has not, ahem, done something against your wishes.”

Lady Mary purses her lips so tightly they turn white but shakes her head. He wonders why she would admit anything to him but he supposes she must be in shock.

“Then what..?" He hesitates, and looks to Anna. 

She sighs, knowing it is within Thomas’ nature to find the truth of a bad situation, “I suppose you better come with us."

* * *

“What happened?” Thomas whispers, looking upon the unsavory corpse of the former Kemal Pamuk, wrapped only in a sheet.

“I don’t know!” Lady Mary cries, “A heart attack, I suppose, or a stroke or… he was alive and suddenly he cried out and then he was dead!”

When she calms slightly Anna adds quietly, but sure, “Well, we know what we have to do.” 

“We have to,” Lady Mary agrees, suddenly sober, looking to Thomas “If we don’t, the house will figure in a scandal of such magnitude it will never be forgotten until long after I am dead. I’ll be ruined. Ruined and notorious…”

“You don’t have to convince me, m’lady” he interrupts, startling the Lady and earning a scowl from Anna, who looks increasingly like she’s come to regret involving the mischievous footman.

He approaches the bed and turns Pamuk over. Thomas thinks the wine must still be emboldening him because he feels unfazed by the site before him; the wide, empty eyes, the cold skin still covered in a sheen of sweat. He could leave, wake up Carson, wake up His Lordship, absolve himself of responsibility. 

He wraps his arms around the dead man’s chest.

“Hurry up then, the others will be waking soon.”

* * *

 

They pack him into bed quickly, efficiently almost, before Thomas yanks the sheet from her Ladyship's room from beneath the body, turning to leave. 

“I can’t make his eyes stay shut.” Lady Mary sobs, and she’s a quivering mess again.

“My Lady,” Anna says, so gently (her compassion will never cease to startle him), “We must get back to our rooms.”

Thomas opens the door to go with the sheet before Anna grabs his arm. 

“Thomas- Thomas, please, you mustn’t tell a soul.”

He understands what she is really saying is “You must not use this to your own ends.” And what is strange about this situation, besides hauling the corpse of the diplomat who was apparently struck down by Lady Mary’s grace, is that he hasn’t once thought of how he might exploit the situation. 

It is not like him at all.

“Cross my heart.” Thomas smirks. Best to keep up appearances.

(He tells himself, later, that his silence and aid is down to self-preservation. If Anna cared to question just a little further she would know who led Pamuk to Mary's room and, worse, why. At least this way he's protected. But no, that's not quite true.)

It isn’t until he is back in bed that Thomas realises that it is he who will have to discover the body tomorrow morning.


	2. Season 1, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story assume some knowledge of Thomas' storylines. Not in depth, just generally what happened to him during this season, as I mention incidents that happened in the show in passing. And if Bates seems particularly up himself, well that's just how Thomas sees him.

Smoke curls into the air of the courtyard and Thomas watches it drift up like a spectre. He taps the cigarette against his lip thoughtfully, frustrated.

He’d seen Evelyn Napier off earlier that day, after ‘discovering’ the body of Kemal Pamuk and, yet again, hauling it around to be taken to the hospital for closer inspection. Now, dust settled, Thomas is still considering where he stands.

He’s been making thinly veiled comments all morning, just within earshot of Anna. But, she hasn’t risen to the bait, as stubbornly loyal as she is. In fact, the only reaction he’s gotten had been from Daisy who, true to form, looked startled and confused.

A gentle, pointed cough and the soft crunch of gravel underfoot brings Thomas out of his thoughts. 

“My Lady,” he jumps up, standing to attention, “Can I help you?”

“Anna told me this was a haunt of yours.” Lady Mary says simply, as if it explains everything. 

Behind her petticoat, corset and layers upon layers of fabric she looks much less fragile than she had in her nightgown. Still, he wonders how The Family cannot see how shaken she is, even now.

“Thomas,” Lady Mary takes a deep, shuddering breath “I must be sure, absolutely sure, that the- events of last night are safe with you.”

He puts the cigarette out beneath his shoe before replying, “Of course, my Lady, I would never jeopardise the position of the family.”

It’s insincere and she can tell. She’s probably been warned by Anna that the scheming footman would sell his own mother for a better position in the world. It’s not far from the truth but he has come at this from every angle, considered the potential to blackmail and manipulate and extort (though it felt half hearted, forced) and has come up short.

“You don’t believe me.”

Lady Mary looks ready to deny it but thinks better of insulting Thomas’ intelligence.

“Put it this way, my Lady” He says, enjoying himself a little now, when else would he get the opportunity to cross swords with the upper class? “If I use this information against you it will result in my being dismissed and if you dismiss me without just cause I can use the information. As I see it, my silence has assured me a place at Downton for life.”

(It feels like playing his hand but better that then the alternative of his altercation with Pamuk being discovered.)

Lady Mary is practically glowering at him now.

He taps his cigarette packet, and offers her one, “You look tense.”

The gesture startles a laugh from her but she waves him away with black gloved hands.

“Could you imagine the gossip if I were found smoking back here.” _With a servant_ she tactfully leaves off but it still stings his pride.

“There are worse scandals, I imagine.” Thomas quips. Thrust and parry.

“Yes,” she says, not affronted but looking at him appraisingly (as if seeing him properly for the first time), “I imagine so.”

* * *

Downstairs, in the days and weeks that follow, life plods along as before, mostly oblivious to the eldest daughter’s shame.

Bates is still insufferable; righteous and smug in the face of Thomas’ misfortunes. It makes Thomas’ stomach curl. It makes him ask Daisy, naïve, wide eyed Daisy, to the fair just to get a rise out of him. It works (“ _You bastard”_ ). In the end, William is just a casualty of that particular war.

When Bates has him up against a wall, spitting insults like poison (and he really isn't scared, not anymore), he'll keep a straight face and think of it as fun. When O’Brien asks he'll call it boredom. 

(Years later he will see these moments for what they were, youthful arrogance hiding a suffocating kind of fear and loneliness.)

And when O’Brien asks why he’s so interested in the late Mr. Pamuk, he’ll call that boredom too.

* * *

“Thomas?” Lady Mary stops him in the hallway after dinner one evening, days now after _the incident_ (as the Lady has so tastefully taken to calling it).

“Yes my Lady?”

“I hope everything is well with you?” Her eyes shine in the soft candlelight of the hall and she fiddles with the gloves at her elbow.

This is a usual exchange between them now, in passing after dinner, in the entrance hall or at the top of the servant’s stairs. He knows that she’s waiting for the catch, the moment he tries to bribe her.

He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t considered it further, especially now. Things are on edge, with peg leg Bates. He knows about the wine, or has suspicions at least. How wonderful would it be to simply ask her ladyship to have him removed? But even Thomas can’t imagine how that particular scheme would work, and he normally has an eye for it. It doesn’t help his cause that Anna had asked why Thomas had been upstairs that fateful evening, not satisfied with his earlier excuse. That truth scares him more than anything Bates might try.

“Quite, my Lady” He says, simply.

“Good,” she sighs, “Very good.”

There’s something to the lilt of her voice, a soft resignation, that makes him come out with, “And- how are you, my Lady?”

Her eyes widen a fraction, startled by the concern, but she says, “I’ve seen better days."

He appreciates the honesty, at least. 

"I'm sorry to hear that, my Lady." She's hardly one of the unfortunate, downtrodden souls that Thomas would normally find empathy with but, despite himself, he finds he's telling the truth. Just a little.

Still, he shouldn't like to let her get too comfortable with his silence.

"Still, things could be worse."

* * *

It's slow afternoon, as Thomas reads the paper and others work around the table, when Anna asks “Have you recovered, Daisy?” 

“What from?” Bates chips in from the seat next to her (and don't think Thomas can't see exactly what's happening between those two. It makes him feel nauseous.) 

“She had a bit of a turn when we were in Lady Mary’s room. Didn’t you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Daisy says in a tone which is anything but.

Thomas scowls, the kitchen maid has been skittish about going into the upstairs room ever since _the incident_. It could be explained away as just Daisy being her usual frightful self but Thomas has never let anyone escape his suspicion and he won’t start now.

“What sort of a turn?” he asks, none too kindly, “Did you see a ghost?”

“Leave her alone if she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

 _Here comes William,_ Thomas thinks nastily, _knight on a white charger._

“I’ve often wondered if this place is haunted, it ought to be.” He casts an eye at Anna but she resolutely refuses to engage. Loyal to the end, that one.

“By the spirits of maids and footman who died in slavery?” O’Brien says, and Thomas smirks. He may be keeping a secret or two from her these days, but she always stands on the right side, with him. He often wonders why it is only them two that seem to see how unjust it is that some people should be serving and others served upon just by virtue of their birth. 

“Not in Thomas’ case from overwork.” Bates quips, that self-satisfaction dripping from his voice onto Thomas like acid.

 _Smug git_ , he thinks, glaring back, _I’ll have you yet._ But now’s not the time.

Thomas turns back to Daisy, “Come on Daisy, what was it?”

“I don’t know-I was thinking; first we ‘ad the titanic-“

“Don’t keep harping back to that!” O’Brien starts up.

“I know it was a while ago, but we knew ‘em. I think of how I laid the fires for Mr. Patrick but he drowned in them icy waters. And then… there’s the Turkish gentleman.” _There it is_ “It just seems there’s been too much death in the house.”

“What’s that got to do with Lady Mary’s bedroom?”

“Nothing- nothing at all.”

No use in having information if Daisy is just going to run her mouth, Thomas reasons, something has to be done about that. 

* * *

He waits until the hubbub of the kitchen settles, later that same day, before returning and asking in sincere a voice as he can muster, “Daisy, can I speak to you for a moment please?”

He had almost forgotten how taken she was with him because the kitchen maid immediately blushes and fiddles with her apron, “Of course Thomas.”

Behind her Beryl Patmore huffs and casts a distrustful eye over Thomas, “Fine, but be quick about it.”

Thomas closes the door of the boot room behind him and turns to Daisy just to catch this mild kind of wonderment in her eyes, as if he’s about to drop to one knee. The affection is unnerving.

“Daisy,” he says earnestly, “I couldn’t help but notice how upset you’ve been over Mr. Pamuk’s death.”

She somehow flushes and pales all at once, flustered and terrified by the memory of that night.

“I-I-“ she starts, but Thomas has no patience for it and cuts in.

“I know you think something sordid must have happened but in truth it’s quite tragic.” He makes something of a production of it, knowing how susceptible Daisy can be to storytelling.

“Oh?”

“Mr. Pamuk was not in a fit mental state, that evening. In fact, he was very unwell and wondering the halls in an indecent state. Lady Mary heard him collapse outside of her room when he had a terrible fit and passed away. She wanted to save his dignity, leading to the terrible things you saw.”

“How awful!” She gasps, “I ‘ad no idea!”

“Of course not, how could you?” He pacifies, feeling rather satisfied with his spin, “But you understand why this must be kept quiet? It would be terribly embarrassing to the Turkish embassy, not to mention his family, if the manner of his death ever became public. We can keep it between me and you, eh Daisy?”

He reaches out to hold her shoulder. When she leans into him, Thomas knows he has her, “Of course,” Daisy whispers, “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Now,” He smiles, “You best be back to work before Mrs. Patmore tells me off.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for telling me, Thomas, I’d been so worried.”

Daisy scurries away leaving Thomas quite startled with his decision. To keep a secret without thought of how it might benefit him? Awful. 

* * *

It is in one of their clandestine crossings that Thomas tells Lady Mary of how he handled Daisy.

“Why?”

“Well there is a need for our stories to be straight should she let anything slip. The other staff are starting to get suspicious about her skittishness.”

“No, Thomas, I mean why did you lie to Daisy?” She doesn’t say it unkindly, and the lack of accusation in her voice almost catches him off guard (when was the last time anyone had asked him anything, without suspicion laced in their words?).

For a moment, he considers telling her that it was just another assurance of his position at Downton, just another thing to hold over her head- it’s what they're both expecting.

He gives a non committal shrug instead.

“I couldn’t rightly say my Lady.” Then, with a smirk, “Perhaps I’m warming to you.”

"Far too much wit for a footman. ” Mary remarks, lips quirked in a way Thomas recognises only from his own face, "And terribly nefarious too, I hear." she stops short, considers her next words, "I've been warned not to trust you."

It doesn't surprise him one bit. 

"But I think they have you all wrong."

 _This_ does surprise him.

"My Lady?"

Mary shakes her head slightly, "I'm not sure I know either. You're an odd one, Thomas Barrow."

He can't help but smile, "I try."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd so please forgive little mistakes!
> 
> When I get to the end of season one I do plan a bit from Mary's POV in which we can see briefly how her sordid secret not getting out changed her storyline. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated!


	3. Season 1, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Mary's friendship grows under the shadow of Thomas' theft, Mary's growing struggle with her feelings and the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no excuse for how long this has taken me. To be honest, I had forgotten about it and it was all but abandoned but by some miracle I stumbled across an email from AO3 saying I had kudos on this story and it convinced me to return (if that's not a reason to kudos and review then I don't know what is). 
> 
> Enjoy!

 There is a shift, from that day.

Thomas still opens the door for her, brings her tea and serves her food and, for his trouble, still receives little more than a glance. These things will never change. But now, in the gardens, when he passes her alone on the bench, she smiles in a way that is more than duty and he’ll invite himself to sit. Rarely do they speak of Kemal Pamuk these days, or “The Foreign Affairs Debaucle of 1913” as they had so tactfully taken to calling it. Instead there seems to be a strained sort of comradery between them. Against his beliefs and better judgement, Thomas finds he enjoys her company. She is amusing, starkly honest in a way so few people are and, well, it’s just been so long since someone seemed to genuinely enjoy his presence.

It is on her favoured bench, beneath the shade of a willow, that they found themselves one spring afternoon.

Lady Mary laughs at the end of Thomas’ tale about a man (his father, though he doesn't mention this) who was not able to grasp that there could be more than one type of cutlery for a meal. She is a different person, when she smiles. He imagines people might feel the same way about him. (“How can such a young, healthy man be so sombre all the time?” Mrs. Hughes had admonished him one evening at the dinner table.)

“It’s funny to think, really, that what we do is not the norm. Far from it even.” She sighs, “It’s unkind of me to say but that does quite remind me of Matthew.”

“And how is Master Crawley settling in?” Thomas asks with a bit of a smirk. It’s plain as day that Lady Mary and the new Lord-in-practice have been butting heads, even if it’s in her best interest to get on his good side. But Thomas can hardly blame her for self-destructive behaviour.

“Oh, well he’s- he seems to be getting on fine. Better than I had imagined, in fact.” She stares out across the garden, hands restless in her lap and Thomas sees what is happening straight away ( _affection_ ).

It makes his stomach turn (what he cannot have).

“If you’ll excuse me, my Lady.” He stands abruptly, leaving Mary startled, “I must be getting back to work.”

* * *

During dinner, he eyes them warily from the side of the room, where he stands starched and alert. Now he’s seen it, it’s impossible to miss. They lean in close to one another, bodies turned inwards, speaking low with secret, pleased smiles. A flush rushes along her cheeks when he speaks.

“Oh good God!” Sir Anthony bellows, “I do apologise Lady Grantham, I had a mouthful of salt!”

All attention turns to their affronted guest as Lady Grantham grovels prettily. But Thomas can’t help but notice Master Crawley and Lady Mary, eyes never leaving the other as they giggle like school children.

Afterwards, in the drawing room, Mary is fast to mock Sir Anthony’s blunder. Sweet Sybil Crawley laughs along, charmingly and without malice. But Mary’s humour is not meant for such a lovely thing, it is bitter and at the expense of others. It is _his_. As he pours their tea, Thomas wonders how two people from such different walks of life could be so similar.

It is the middle sister, Lady Edith, who takes offense to Mary’s joke. There is no surprise there, it was well known downstairs that the two had been at odds for as long as they could speak. Only what was once over dolls was now over men.  It is clear as day that Lady Edith feels as if she is in the shadow of her elder sister. A shadow that has made her sour and hostile. Thomas knew just how dangerous those kind of people could be- _I’ll have to keep an eye on her._

* * *

 

 “Mr. Carson?” Anna asks later that same evening, “We were wondering about that snuff box, has it turned up yet?”

Thomas perks up over his soup. The snuff box he’d stolen to frame Mr. Bates. Why should she be asking after that? 

“I’m afraid not.” Carson replies in sombre tones, as if the missing snuff box is the end of the world itself. God forbid Lord Grantham ever get injured, Carson might keel over himself out of sympathy alone.

“Well I think we should have a search.” Bates says with strained sincerity.

Thomas freezes, “What?”

He’s been had, by bloody Long John Silver.

_Fuck._

* * *

 

Thomas sits on the step in the courtyard, fingers black from shoe polish as he scrubs at his Lordship's boots. The pomade has begun to lose its hold after a long days toil and his hair flops over his eyes. He blames this, and not his distracted state of mind, on why he missed her approach.

“Why are you out here all alone?” Mary asks curiously.

Thomas drops the shoes and springs to attention, “Needed a bit of peace and quiet, my Lady.”

In truth, he couldn’t bare to be around bloody Bates any longer. The arrogant sod, making thinly veiled comments about the wine at any given chance. It’s not that Thomas was scared ( _liar_ ) it was that he thought he might wring the bastard’s neck the next time he spoke.

“Can I help you, my Lady?”

She seems skittish, hands nervously fluttering in front of her.  

“Oh, I was just having a stroll and thought I’d pop round and inquire as to any updates.”

“Updates?”

“The incident.”

“Ah.”

They so rarely spoke of it now, it was almost surprising to hear.

“It’s just-“ She stops, takes a breath, “It’s just Edith has been acting out of sorts recently, I’m worried she’s looking for something to use against me.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” He reassures, “Daisy told me that Lady Edith had approached her but she swore she gave nothing away,” He smirks, “She wanted to check with me first.”

“You’ve got that poor girl wrapped around your finger haven't you?” Her previous irritability falls away and she looks to him earnestly, “Thank you Thomas, truly. I can only imagine what Edith might have done had she gotten hold of that information. Told my father, my mother-“

“- told Master Crawley?” Thomas interrupts. She looks at him sharply then, a defensiveness in her eyes.

“Forgive me, my Lady, but his is the only opinion you truly care about, isn’t it?”

“That’s quite an impertinent question, Thomas.”

“I’m quite an impertinent person, Mar- my Lady.” He bites back his informal slip.

She softens then, shoulders coming down a touch. It’s a wonder, Thomas thinks, how anyone believes Mary Crawley is cold. She is as warm as the hearth lit in the morning, the one that happens to be protected by an iron grate.

“How is it,” Mary shakes her head with a hollow laugh, “That you’ve managed to see what I could not?”

* * *

Bloody Bates. Bloody Bates and his bloody leg and his bloody righteousness. There they were, stood in Carson’s office like fools, his and O’Brian’s plan gone to shot and Bates… Bates said nothing. He could have turned Thomas in right then, for stealing the wine, but he said nothing. That made it sting more somehow, that he saw himself as too noble, too above Thomas’ _petty_ games to even tell the truth.

“I’m gonna bloody get him.” He tells O’Brien in the darkened hall at the foot of the stairs, clandestine, “I don’t care what you say.”

“What would I say? Everything comes to him who waits.” She neither agrees nor disagrees.

“Well I’ve waited long enough.”

* * *

They sit in comfortable silence on her favourite bench, watching the orange glow of a fading daylight set the grounds alight. He’s supposed to be fetching her for dinner but she’d patted the seat next to her. Who was he to refuse?

“What are we doing, my Lady?” He asks, eventually.

“Just _thinking_ , Thomas.”

As a footman, Thomas is barely given a moment to himself to _just_ _think._ If he’s not polishing sliver or setting tables then he’s plotting with O’Brien. But things are changing. War looms over their heads but the Family, Mary included, are oblivious to it. Oblivious to what could kill him and half of their servants. Thomas swallows, he isn’t sure he wants time to think.

“Do you have a sweetheart, Thomas?” Mary breaks the silence. So she’s thinking about Matthew. A proposal, if the gossip downstairs had any truth to it.

“Uh, I’m afraid not, my Lady.”

“No one downstairs take your fancy? I suppose Daisy isn’t really your type.”

_You have no idea._

It startles a laugh out of him and she joins in.

“No, my Lady, my options are rather limited.”

 “Call me Mary, won’t you?”

Thomas is stunned. His mouth hangs agape for a moment.

She smirks, “Just when we’re alone, of course.”

The jest washes away the tension of her act of familiarity, he smiles, “Wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea. Mary.”

* * *

 The tides were turning. Turning back and drowning him. He’d lost Daisy’s trust, his Lordship was ready to throw him out on his ear and the information O’Brien had gathered on Bates hadn’t worked. It hadn’t even made a dent. There was nothing for it, Thomas would always be the villain of their story. John Bates could murder someone over The Family's dinner and somehow the finger of blame would still fall back on him.

It didn’t matter, he’d always find his feet in the end. There was a war coming after all, _and war means change._ He hadn’t been speaking empty words when he had told the other servants he was preparing. _I don’t want to be a footman anymore but I don’t intend to be killed in battle._

Thomas approaches Dr Clarkson as he visits the abbey, talks to him in that sweet, sycophantic voice he reserves for people who can help him. A medic in a field hospital is better than cannon fodder in the trenches.

“Will you not be missed here?” Dr Clarkson asks.

_Not one bit._

* * *

  _She was under no illusions as to what sort of man Thomas Barrow was. Rumours drifted from downstairs about his standoffishness, his mean streak and his self-imposed isolation. But Mary Crawley knew better than anyone how a person could be so cold._

 _She had surprised herself by continuing to seek him out long after the incident was no longer a threat. Unlike Papa who seems to care more about Matthew (about_ _his_ heir _)_ , _her mother who cares more about finding her a suitable husband, Edith who is a complete bore and Sybil with her almost painful earnesty; Thomas is bitterly sarcastic, honest and… shockingly like her._

_Maybe that’s why it stings with something like betrayal when she hears, from her father of all people, that Thomas has left. Left for the army. “And good riddance too, after all that theft,” he harrumphs. Mary remains silent._

_She’s forced to admit that it was more than an alliance. It had been an unlikely friendship forged between two people who so often found themselves on the outside._

_It doesn’t matter, she thinks, just another short-lived relationship, a temporary respite, like Matthew. She’d always find her feet in the end._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to silentgirlspeaksout on Tumblr who's rough plot inspired a lot of this chapter (a few lines were even taken directly from what she wrote).
> 
> I can't promise the next chapter will be soon but it won't be nearly as long as the last.


	4. Season 2, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Thomas exchange letters during the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence points: 
> 
> Vera Bates isn’t part of the story (yet) because she has no second hand information about Anna carrying Kemal Pamuk with Mary to blackmail Bates with. Anna and Bates are just making eyes at each other and being sad they can’t be together with no additional drama.
> 
> Thomas goes and gets himself shot immediately after the conversation with Matthew in the show, I’ve added a few extra weeks in between those events here. In fact, the timeline of whole first episode has been stretched out into about 6 months to a year.

 

He reads her first letter at night by the meager flicker of his cigarette lighter. It had arrived earlier in the day and the men had hounded him to open it, so desperate for any fresh news from home shores. But he refused to do it in front of them. If it wasn’t O’Brien’s handwriting then, Thomas assumed, it must have been bad news.  A cigarette between chapped lips, he tears open the envelope.  

_Dear Thomas,_

_You might be surprised to hear from me. I confess, I have surprised myself by choosing to write. It is only that cousin Matthew has just arrived at Downton on home leave, new fiance in tow, and it seemed so dreadfully unfair that he should be liberated from the fighting whilst you remain at the front._

_I hope you don’t mind that I have retrieved your contact information from O’Brien. You were such a great aid to me,_

Here there is a thick black line over a few now unreadable words, the ink pressed so hard into the page that it has seeped through to the other side. (Hidden from Thomas it reads “a friend”).

_an ear to listen to my woes, when you needn’t be that I felt it my duty to return the favour. So if there is anything I can do please don’t hesitate to write back. I should also like to hear that you are safe and in good health._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Lady Mary Crawley_

Huddled in a filthy bolt hole on his crowded bunk, Thomas is momentarily convinced that what he has just read is a fabrication of his damaged mind. It has been a year since he’s left Downton to join the futile crawl in the mud and blood. A year since he’s spoken to anyone from “home” but O’Brien.

A bitter part of him insists this letter is not a kindness, but a way of escaping a debt she owes him for Pamuk. And yet, Thomas finds himself immediately rummaging through his pack for the stash of paper. It would be rude to keep a Lady waiting.

* * *

 

_Dear Lady Mary,_

_The men asked who I could possibly be getting a letter from, knowing that I am without family and with only O’Brien as a friend. I hope you won’t be offended that I told them it was from a sweetheart, it certainly kept them from snooping again._

It is all she can do to smother her unseemly laugh behind her hand at this.

“What has you so tickled, dear girl?” Her father enquires.

“Nothing papa.” Mary smirks, taking a delicate bite of her eggs.

_I am as safe and healthy as one can be in a battlefield. I hope to be allowed a visit back to England’s green and pleasant lands soon but it seems unlikely._

_I’ve not much to ask of you. Perhaps you could send me news from Downton? O’Brien keeps me updated on the servants’ gossip, so I know all about your sister cooking with Mrs. Patmore and the audacity of the new maid, Ethel._

Mary hardly knew about any of that herself. She briefly considered asking Thomas to tell her more in her next letter but realised it would be in bad taste to scrounge third hand gossip from a man at war.

_But I’ve a rare insight into upstairs life in you. Just tell me what you can. I’d like to hear more of Matthew’s new fiance and your feelings on the matter- although I think I can guess._

_Your sincerely,_

_Thomas Barrow_

Mary purses her lips tightly at his final line of impertinence (insightfulness) even from hundreds of miles away.

* * *

 

 

_Dear Thomas,_

_I was delighted to receive your letter and hear you are getting on as well as possible under the circumstances._

_If news of life at Downton is what you desire, then it is what I shall provide._

_The war effort has shaken the estate in interesting ways. My father has been made a Colonel and hopes to set boots in France with his regiment soon but, of course, they’d never let him. He does so hate to feel useless. My sisters have found no such trouble. Dear, soft-hearted Sybil has not just been cooking, she has decided to become a nurse. And Edith has taken to driving, as if that might achieve something. It is more than me, I suppose._

_I hope this information will tide you over for a while and give you something to laugh about with your troop._

_There is not much to say of Matthew’s intended, Lavinia. She is a gentle girl, and kind, there is no doubt. Nothing like myself. And she makes Matthew happy, what more is there to say? In any case, I myself am being courted by the newspaper proprietor, Sir Richard Carlisle. He is, perhaps, a bit difficult to warm too. Coarse and morally ambiguous but ambitious and forward thinking, which I find I appreciate._

She sounds like she’s trying to talk herself into liking the man, Thomas thinks.

_And yet, I still found myself at the train station at Matthew’s parting. I’ve told no one else of this, and you must keep it to your chest, but I gave him my girlhood lucky charm to keep him safe. Am I a fool?_

Yes, Thomas thinks with something akin to fondness.

_But I’ve talked far too much about myself. You must tell me about the time you’ve spent serving our country. Many of the men who return are tight lipped about it but they say it makes men of boys. I’d be terribly curious to know more._

Thomas barely stops himself from crushing the letter in his hand at her _curiousity_. How could he forget how blind her lot were to this useless struggle.

_Did you only require news from me? I know you are a proud man but please don’t fear asking for provisions._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mary_

He picks up his paper and pencil in anger.

* * *

 

_Dear Lady Mary,_

_I’m not so proud that I wouldn’t ask for you a little something to brighten these God forsaken trenches but it is difficult to have clothing or food delivered this far in. So I ask for nothing more._

_Let me tell you a little of my life in France. It is my job to climb over the top of the trenches during the moments of cease fire and collect the bodies of the fallen men. If we’re very lucky, we may find a soul alive to carry back to the field hospital where he can die in bed, instead of in the mud. I sleep on a hard cot in a hole in the earth with a corrugated tin roof and as I drift off I pray that a Kraut won’t gas me in my sleep. Three days past, I watched a fellow man of the medical corps “thank God” for life before being promptly and unceremoniously shot in the head. I wonder when I’ll be the body flung from the trenches, rather than the one flinging._

_It is a true_ honour _to serve my country._

This final sentence drips with contempt.

Mary can feel the bright hot blush of shame creep up her face and she is suddenly thankful she chose to read Thomas’ letter in the privacy of her own room.

_Thank you for writing, it was good to hear of Downton._

_Best wishes,_

_Corporal Barrow_

What a selfish fool she’s been.

* * *

 

He could scarcely believe when the letter adorned with her spidery, delicate handwriting had been placed in his hand. Thomas had been sure his last letter would shock and offend her enough to end all correspondence. He’d not regretted his words (the truth) but he had regretted the harsh way he had presented them and the certain loss of a lifeline from home.

Apparently, the Lady was not so easily shaken.

_Dear Corporal Barrow,_

_You must forgive me. We are so protected here, from the the death and desperation you must be experiencing, that I assumed it must be an honour to serve your country and not the burden I see it is now. I hear of the war effort only from my father who is so decorated that he will, hopefully, never even see foreign soil, let alone understand what misery you must being going through. When I was finally brave enough to ask Matthew what it was like out there he couldn’t bare to tell me. I should have realised then. So, please, forgive my ignorance and insensitivity and, please, tell me the truth of your experiences if you feel you can. Not to sate my curiosity but so there is someone who can share in your hardship. Spare no gruesome detail, if it makes you feel better to let it out._

_It feels frivolous to talk of the dinners at Downton and idle downstairs gossip now. All I shall tell you is that every night, since Matthew left again, I have prayed at my bedside over a photo of him. Prayed to keep him safe, that is. I’ve no photo of you to pray with but, please know, you have joined those prayers, equal to him._

_Yours,_

_Mary_

* * *

 

_Dear Mary,_

_I gave up on God long ago, or He gave up on me, but I appreciate your prayers. And I accept your apology if you can forgive me for speaking so harshly._

_I neglected to tell you, in the anger of my last letter, that I met none other than Lieutenant Crawley in the trenches some weeks ago. I even hosted him for tea. My mother might die of shock, if she saw it. But I suppose it’s only as unlikely as trading letters with the Earl of Grantham’s daughter._

The smile that crinkles her eyes is positively sentimental. Warm even. She desperately hopes no one sees it.

_Whilst we're on the topic of Lieutenant Crawley; you asked me if I thought you were a fool for your gesture, and I suspect your hope, now he is engaged. I don't think there is a simple answer. Love is not something that comes to me easily and I'm not sure I could bare to let it go if I was lucky enough to find it. And yet my instinct is to tell you to stay safe with this Carlisle fellow._

Safe from what? Mary wonders. From love? From hurt?

_Whatever you choose to do, do not lie to yourself._

_On to happier topics. I have no close family left and have alienated most of the staff at Downton so if I die out here there's only you and O’Brien left to mourn me. I don't need a grave or a service but I'd like someone to remember me with something resembling fondness, if you can. Maybe a kind word at dinner, especially if Carson is around to hear it. Oh, and I've left a box personal items with Dr. Clarkson. If I die, well, I'll be dead and won't give a toss what people think of me so it needn't be destroyed or anything so dramatic. But the money must go to O’Brien and you're welcome to anything else. You may even enjoy some of the pictures._

Mary isn't quite sure what he means by that but she's sure it would offend her sensibilities if she did.

_Yours,_

_Thomas_

* * *

 

_Dear Mary,_

_I know I’m still waiting on your reply but I had to write this whilst I had the nerve to do so._

_I’ve been out here for two years now. Two years living amongst the deceased and their feasting maggots, the ceaseless gunfire, the cloying damp and bitter cold.  There are few, precious days when the fighting is called to a halt by those safe back in England, for reasons kept from us. Precious days when no one dies, on either side. But I am a selfish man and they are not precious to me because lives are spared but because there are fewer rigid, rodent-bitten bodies of the fallen for me to collect. I am lucky in my daily work if I find a man injured but alive as it means I can leave the trenches and deliver him to the field hospital. It means I can dry my boots by a fire away from the front whilst those men still in the trenches, who will die tomorrow, lose their fingers and toes to the cold and have their sodden flesh wasted away._

_Something your Matthew said to me has been festering in my mind. He said that the war makes us realise what is truly important. For me, that is simple. My life._

_I can't bare another day of it. I await my deliverance._

_Your friend,_

_Thomas_

With shaking hands, Thomas tucks the letter into his pocket. If he makes it back to England he will hand it to Mary himself. For now, he knows what he must do. Seeing the truth of his small, cruel world written down has strengthened his resolve. He picks up his lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait guys. Still, four months is probably my best yet.


	5. Season 2, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Downton and safe from the war, Thomas begins working at the hospital and confides in Mary about a patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive and I still want to finish this fic, if anyone is still reading it.

O’Brien is the only soul to great him at the home front. It’s good enough, it’s more than he expects. He could kiss her, for his new job at the hospital and for being the only one glad to see his miserable face, but he smirks and shows her the hole in his treasonous hand instead. She gives him a rundown of the new gossip in return.

As he enters The Big House once again, Thomas pauses at the bottom of the servants staircase and thinks about the letter still tucked safely into his breast pocket. He’ll keep this promise.

Inside the servant’s hall, the others aren’t so pleased to see him. Though he certainly doesn’t help with his “cheek”. Bates and Anna sit shoulder to shoulder, a united front without touching. So, two years had changed very little there.

William has been called up, they tell Thomas. And they look so bloody proud of him for it. _He’s going to get himself killed_ , Thomas thinks but, for once in his life, doesn’t say. It would do no good to let them see what the war has done to him.

As proud and starched as ever, Carson doesn’t even look him in the eye. Thomas clenches his jaw, _fine, that’s fine_.

“How long will you be staying in the village for, Thomas?” Anna breaks the silence.

Thomas smirks and says with pride, “A while. I’ve got a job up at the hospital tending to the injured men.” _For as long as there is a war to injure men._

Bates snorts, “Waiting tables to sponge baths, quite the step up.”

“Mr. Bates.” Anna says sharply in his defence. It’s surprising. “You wouldn’t say such a thing to Lady Sybil.”

Thomas opens his mouth to knock both of them down but is interrupted by a small, quiet -

“Thomas.”

The grating sound of chairs scraping against the floor fills the room and then falls away to a thick, bemused silence. Every set of eyes turn to look between Thomas and Lady Mary.

“I-” She stalls, coughs once, “I heard that Corporal Barrow here had returned and wanted to check on his well-being, on behalf of the family.”

Mary’s face is impassable. Closed even to Thomas who had read her worries and desires in black and mud stained-white. But her lace gloved hands are clasped tightly in front of her.

“That’s kind of you, m’Lady.” He says diplomatically, “I can assure you I am in good health, besides my hand, that is.”

Something in the set of her shoulders loosens at that (something that looks suspiciously like relief).

“That is good to hear, I’ll be sure to report back to my father. And you’re well set up?”

“Yes, m’lady. I’ll be working up at the hospital for the foreseeable future. 

“Good. Well.” Mary takes a breath and nods sharply, “Good. As you were.”

She’s turns sharply on her heels and ascends the staircase.

The new, mouthy maid, Ethel, is the first to drop back into her seat, eyebrows raised.

“Well. That was strange.”

* * *

A quiet dinner, as many are these days. What with half the staff being shot at in France.

“And how are things at the hospital, dear?” Cora asks her youngest daughter, who has made a rare appearance at dinner.

“Oh, quite well. There has been a big influx of men from the front but we’re managing. Corporal Barrow has come to work with us now. He’s somewhat of a natural actually. Very attentive.” Sybil praises.

“Really?” Robert scoffs, “I find that hard to believe.”

From the corner of the room, Carson wears a look of derision.

Mary purses her lips, holding back her defence.

“Don’t be unkind, Papa” Sybil chides, “He’s been through a lot. All of the men have.”

They lapse into a palpable silence.

Mary coughs, “Speaking of the hospital, I was hoping to visit this week, Sybil. If it’s not too much trouble of course.”

“It’s busy but it will cheer the men’s spirits to have a woman visit, so I don’t see why not.” 

* * *

Just two days later, Sybil sweeps Mary around the hospital, a mascot to cheer the wounded. They smile at her through bandage covered faces and she feels ill. But she shakes every hand and hears every name.

 The men are packed in like sardines, some beds mere inches apart. When Mary raises her concerns, Sybil can only shake her head. What is there to do, she questions, more come home every day. Each man worse than the last.

Sybil leaves her sister on the doorstep, feeling drained and of less use than ever.

“M’lady” Says a familiar Lancashire drawl.

“Thomas.” Mary almost sighs with relief, “Shall we go for a walk?”

They walk the small grounds of the hospital with heads bowed together, speaking in hushed tones. Conspirators. Mary speaks largely of Sir Richard. His bold chase and his thriving businesses. She carefully skirts around the topic of another. Thomas speaks of the men he sees to, and of one in particular. Edward Courtney. Blinded and beaten down by his family.

“You speak of this soldier almost fondly.” Mary smiles, “If I didn’t know better I’d say you cared for him.”

“I suppose I feel a... kinship with him.”  

She doesn’t push further.

“Meet me here, the same time next week, won’t you?”

Before they part, he presses a letter into her hand, telling her, “I promised myself, if I made it back to England alive, I’d give this to you personally.”

She looks down to the letter, bloodied and mud stained but addressed clearly to her, and clutches it tightly. When she looks back up, Thomas has already fled.

* * *

Thomas dedicates his time to Edward’s rehabilitation in the space between. It’s hard and cruel. But Edward rarely ends the day with tears of frustration now and more and more often he accepts comfort from Thomas. A touch to the hand or knee, a cup of tea (a smile he can’t see).

This evening, Edward has his face turned to the wall as he lies in his trundle bed, still fully clothed in his army garb, and Thomas knows his mood will not allow those small comforts. He understands this better than Edward can possibly know.

( _This_ , a small, treacherous voice thinks, _is how you live your life_.)

He sets the cup of tea on the bedside table and leaves, moving through the quiet halls of the old hospital. Around a corner he falls into a young, dark haired woman.

“Oh, pardon me, Lady Sybil.” Thomas apologises.

“Please Thomas, it’s just Sybil here. I’m not the daughter of an Earl in the hospital.”

“Alright, Sybil.” He acquiesces, “But you’ll always be the daughter of an Earl. Even covered in sick.”

Her chuckle floats softly towards him. Nothing like her eldest sister, whose laugh makes others bristle, a crack in the air. The sweet and the cruel. He wonders how two such different women could share the same blood and how he could be so _fond_ of both.

* * *

The next time she visits, Mary asks Thomas to take off his glove. She holds the scarred tissue between her delicate hands and whispers, “I’m sorry.” And he knows she read the letter.

“Do you think I’m a coward?” He asks softly, as they walk through the fragrant spring blooms behind the hospital.

She shakes her head, “How could I?”

* * *

 

 The following week, the corners of Mary’s mouth are downturned.

“Sir Richard has asked me to marry him.” She says in a rush, “I haven’t told anyone that yet.”

If Thomas is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He takes a long drag on his cigarette and says in a breath of smoke, “And will you accept?’

“I don’t know.”

“Because of Matthew?”

She hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“If it causes you so much grief- if _he_ causes you so much grief,” Thomas almost snaps, “then bloody well do something about it. If you’ll excuse my language.”

 Mary laughs but changes the subject deftly, “Oh dear, Corporal Barrow. What if Carson were to hear you.”

“So what if he bloody does.”

But the next week, Thomas does not make an appearance.

* * *

 

She returns the next day ready to scold him but all anger falls away when she lays eyes on his sad figure. Sat alone on a mossy bench, Thomas’ face is ashen, his hair falling out of its usual perfect pomade. He fumbles with a cigarette packet, drops it twice and his hands shake as he puts the cigarette in his mouth. She steps in quickly and takes the lighter from his fingers gently, holding the flame to the tip of the cigarette between his lips.

He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and tries to compose himself. But when he speaks his voice shakes fiercely.

“Edward Courtney is dead. He killed himself. I found him bleeding out but I couldn’t- he wasn’t-” He trails off.

“Oh, Thomas.” Is all Mary can bring herself to say. She doesn’t understand his connection to the man, she’s not sure she can. But she knows that when he spoke of Courtney, his eyes softened, like her own must when she thought of Matthew. She puts a hand on his knee in comfort.

The gesture seems to break him and he hangs his head to sob.

They sit in silence, pine needles from a tree above floating into their hair and the cigarette turning to ash in Thomas’ fingers, until his shoulders stop shaking and his tears dry up.

 


End file.
